A Shot in the Dark
by WafflerWrites
Summary: Bad fortune is not particularly favorable when on a case in an abandoned hospital with Sherlock Holmes. Especially not with a gang of murderous serial killers lurking in the shadows. One-Shot


_Hello everybody! It's been awhile! This week I've taken_ **a lot** _of time crafting this specially made self-insert one-shot. I'm actually quite proud of this, so I do hope you all enjoy!_

 _There was some morse code within the story, but fanfiction didn't like the extra dashes and would ruin the morse code messages._

 _ **Word Count** : 4,348_

 _(A bit longer than my usual fics.)_

 _ **Warning** : A good amount of descriptive violence/wounds in the beginning. I know a few people who don't handle that all to well, so I figured I'd warn you if you're easily squeamish._

000

The hallway was dimly lit. The luminosity was questionable; it forced you to squint your eyes and wonder if a shadow was a lurking foe or a fault in the bending of light. You were constantly at edge as you crept around the corridors of the abandoned hospital. You were timid, hesitating and doubting yourself at every suspicious figure. You had always been the type of child who turned off the light in the basement and scurried upstairs while picturing something behind you.

Of course, Sherlock insisted you split up.

You could chase a suspect across rooftops and fight a man twice your size, but you could not do so blindly. The assassins were waiting for one of you to peep around the corner, knife ready.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Breathing was difficult to rein as it hitched and sighed. The palms of your hands were slick with nervous sweat. Your heart rate flew when something shuffled and instinct kicked in. The gleam of a polished blade swung out, impaling your rib as you stumbled back. As your skin ripped open, an excruciating burning sensation spiked up your chest.

Through the adrenaline, you elbowed the enemy in the nose and punched him in the throat with your knuckles. You kneed him in the gut, to which he sank to the floor. In a brutal and morbid haze of fear, you kicked at his temple with the toe of your boot, expelling all motion from the newly beaten attacker.

Adrenaline drained as quickly as it'd come. You floundered your way backward until you were leaned against a pale yellow doorway. Nausea, which had been overridden by the adrenaline before, was now all that collected in the pit of your stomach. Truth be told, you had no idea why Sherlock Holmes had ever become your friend. You were scared of the dark, you froze when haste is vital, and lastly… you become queasy around your own blood. The source of your nausea came from a very specific distressing detail: it needed to be your own blood.

You regularly helped John with patients at the clinic and hovered as Sherlock observed crime scenes and dead bodies. You had no problem with blood when it wasn't your own.

Woozy, your eyes were sealed. You inhaled slowly, failing miserably to dispel the sick feeling. You were required to look at the wound to address it, but you couldn't without nausea boiling in your gut. Your imagination was too wild and the thoughts that sprung at you were not welcomed. Peeling your eyelids open, you stared at your battered stomach.

The wound was leaking blood that bubbled with miniature streams of crimson that trickled downward. Red soaked your cotton shirt, causing wet warmth to pool up to your neck. It reeked of copper. Half of your stomach was skinned, the belly button spared, while the excess skin hung wetly. You could definitely see tendons, possibly bone; you weren't a doctor.

At the last observation, you felt sick. An acidic rumble twisted within your stomach, forcing you to stumble onto your shaky feet. Fortunately, there was a bin nearby. Your knees buckled as you retched with your hands clutched at the plastic siding. You heaved, your stomach rolling and contracting.

Once it was safe to open your mouth without projectile vomiting your dinner, you bellowed hoarsely for your friends and roommates. "Sherlock! John!" You cried out in panic, throat raw. You held your stomach, thankfully out of view from your eyes. It's only a graze, you attempted to convince yourself. John will help. Sherlock will know what to do. Butwilltheybutwilltheybutwillthey-

"Y/n!"

Your arms were numb; a fading receptivity of nerves causing you to feel unbalanced. Your knees wobbled, barely able to support themselves. You tumbled backward, cradling your chest while you swallowed bile. The shock was affecting your mobility and reaction time. Your judgment was cloudy with fear. By now, your vision was unfocused. You blinked, yet the two people racing toward you had taken the shape of fuzzy silhouettes.

"Dear god, y/n." John's voice was concerned and disbelieving. He crouched, instantly examining your injury with a doctor's determination. He noted the wound wasn't clotting.

Sherlock, clueless as ever, was fascinated by your work. "Remarkable, y/n. The murderer has a concussion from such a blow to the head. Consider me impressed. Where did you earn such an accuracy and brute force? Surely your physique-"

"Sherlock, forget the bloody body! Y/n's bleeding out!" John tugged your jacket off your sluggish self, wrapping it tightly against the open wound. John perfectly understood your state of delirium, so he pinned you as you protested. He had seen many soldiers die in a state of shock from struggling against medical help. He wouldn't let that happen to you.

You squirmed against his firm hold, trying to escape the throbbing pain. "No- that _hurts that hurts_ -" You whined while breathing heavily to prevent nausea from rising. You squeezed your eyes as burning tears pooled behind them. "That _hurts. John, stop. Please_." You pleaded miserably.

Sherlock, having already observed the vomit in the bin a few steps away, was curious as ever. "I never pinned you as squeamish." His tone was low and comforting, despite the blunt comment.

You exhaled in a pained breath, "Not." You inhaled through your teeth. "Just… my own. Can't- handle my own… blood." You wheezed.

"Strange. There must be a reason for it. Anxiety? Are you sensitive? Maybe shock is affecting-"

"Sherlock, focus!" John snapped, putting pressure on the wound. "Call an ambulance for heaven's sake!"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "There's no signal. We'd have to go outside for service. Is it serious?" Finally, Sherlock inquiries had sobered into silent hovering.

"No. It's a shallow cut, but we can't just leave her here. It's enough to kill in about two hours without attention. Sherlock, you're the only one who knows the way around. See the issue? I can't fend off an assassin and put pressure on her wound at the same time while you run off." John growled in frustration, impelling him to press harder to the wound. You whimpered.

"Then we'll bring her with us. We're currently on the fifth floor, and there should be seven other murderers within this building." Sherlock studied the poorly lit hallway and spewed out his opinion.

John looked horrified for you, doing the math. "Five floors? How are we going to get her across five floors and avoid seven killers?"

Sherlock seemed disappointed of John's lack of observation. "With the _bed_ , John." He pointed to the narrow cot with a faded blue fitted-sheet sprinkled in polka dots. The fabric was wrinkled and scrunched. Sherlock tugged at it and the wheels creaked.

John gritted his teeth. "That will totally give us away."

Sherlock scowled, glancing nervously at you. "But wasting time will do us no good. We don't have that long." He rolled the cot to John. The wheels shrieked at the jerky movement. "There should be seven assassins within the building. Some of which may have already left. There are eight floors, allowing us at least one floor with nobody on it. However they could all be on one floor-" He gripped his forehead. "There are too many variables. We need to take the most precautions while escaping the building as quickly as possible."

"Can't we just shatter a window for service? We don't have time for escape, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head, "Bulletproof and tinted."

Defeated, John sighed. "Nothing's simple when it comes to you, is it?"

"Unfortunately."

In the silence, they observed you. Your posture was deflated. You resembled a dying spider with your limbs curled inward. Exhaustion weighed down your eyelids while they drooped.

"Y/n!" Sherlock whisper-shouted as much as he could whilst murderers roamed the building. He was quickly at your side and clasped your face in his hands, shaking it. "You must not go to sleep yet. It seriously declines your chance of survival."

You groaned as your ribs panged. Your stomach felt like slippery marbles were sloshing around, causing you to feel ill. "So... t'red." You slurred lethargically. "Hurts." You squinted up at their distorted faces above you. "John… 'm going to die, aren' I?" A headache, only intensifying with nausea, throbbed behind your eyes.

John's face pinched in worry. "We're going to get you out of here." He licked his lips anxiously, "Sherlock," His attention moved to the consulting detective. "We _are_ in a hospital, abandoned or not. There's got to be an old med kit somewhere. It won't fix the problem, but it may keep her fighting for longer than a couple hours."

Sherlock hesitated. "I'll stay in the area." And with that, Sherlock's nimble silhouette blended with the darkness, his long coat flapping behind him.

You twisted as the wound shook against the jacket. It was rubbing it raw; the scratchy fiber brushing against open flesh. Your pained grunting didn't cease as you eyed the wound. " _It looks like a fish gill._ " You sobbed in agony. " _I look like a fish._ "

John fidgeted at your graphic and perturbing comparison. He fussed, gingerly searching for other abrasions and bruises. "Try to calm down. Panicking won't help you." He soothed, brushing the sweaty hair from your face.

"John, 'm going to die in here." Your anxiety had always been one of your inferior qualities. In moments of weakness, you blubbered in fear. It was your worst enemy; it installed fright and based your actions off of it. It compelled you to falter and cower in the face of danger. Being a friend of an unpredictable detective, that wasn't favorable.

"We won't let that happen." Sherlock had already appeared out of the dark while clutching several medical kits of varying sizes. Sherlock extended his arm to John, who reached for the kits and took them gratefully.

John leaned in carefully, pressing a damp towel across your wound. You stiffened and gasped spasmodically. A crippling sting flared and you smacked John's shoulder repetitively while kicking and twisting. It felt like acid was pouring onto your broken skin. You stifled a wail, clamping your jaw with a sharp clack.

Sherlock kneeled beside you, patting at your hair and resting a hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you. "John needs to clean the wound. We don't want an infection."

You went slack against the cold flooring, the pain now dissolving into a simmering static. Your vision swam and your ears vibrated when you turned your head. You managed to pant, "What... was that?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Rubbing alcohol." He pivoted, his fingertips resting on your shoulder in consideration. His attention was now veered toward John. "We've wasted enough time tending to her. If we don't start moving now we'll have wasted it."

John nodded in doleful understanding, "Of course." He was swift to apply thick bandages around your middle, wrapping them tight and thoroughly. "Should we move her to the bed, then?"

"Please do." You murmured, shivering on the frigid tile.

Sherlock grasped your upper body with his palm supporting your head and spine, while John scooped up your legs and lower back. It was an effort not to yelp as they positioned you on the creaky mattress. The cushion sank under your weight like a soggy pancake.

John rotated toward the pits of the corridor. "I suppose this is it then. You think this will go smoothly?"

Sherlock's mouth was thin and pinched in distaste. "Likely not."

John glared at Sherlock, annoyed by his low spirits. "Can you _never_ be optimistic?"

"Would you like me to lie?"

John stared at Sherlock a moment. "No."

"Good. I had the impression that wouldn't be of use."

This moment was the tip of an iceberg, just above the surface. Sherlock and John had halted all morals to beam a glare, the silence telling of their progressing irritation. Neither man enjoyed conflict, yet here they were. Two friends unable to express to the other their logic, for the other would only counter it. They would stare, and then return to a temporary harmony. Except for this time, the contest between two contrasting minds ended without conclusion.

Sherlock's constantly active watch for danger was a significant advantage. Within the abyss behind the doctor, a flash of a glossy shank and predator-like eyes caught into Sherlock's peripheral vision. He dove, knocking John's build out of harm. His martial arts kicked in, and soon he was ducking and landing blows on the snake-like assassin.

John scrambled to his toes in bewilderment, scarcely regarding the tussle between Sherlock and the nimble assassin. He wasn't much for martial arts, but he was a soldier. _Thank god_ he'd brought a gun.

The fighting style of the killer a far cry Sherlock's. His moves were clean and witty, while the murderer was scrappy and feral. Sherlock had to dodge and avoid teeth from sinking into his arm. Finally, Sherlock had gotten them into a vulnerable spot. Behind him, John's arm held his Browning steadily.

The assassin's body shape hinted toward female, despite the thick leather jacket hugging her frame. A ski mask hid her facial features. A simple dagger was loosely gripped in her left hand, the blade glistening and sharpened. However, the assassin no longer seemed interested in stabbing the detective.

Sherlock's frown was grim. "Lower your gun, John."

John's aim wavered, "Why?"

Sherlock glowered at the assassin, disapproval clear. "Mary has some explaining to do."

An adept hand slipped the knife in their pocket as if it were a casual thing to do. "I didn't mean it to involve you," Mary said gently, removing the ski mask, revealing her lying face.

John was torn. It was maddening. He would have demanded answers, yet he held back his rage like a trained soldier. He grabbed the metal of bed and began forcing it to roll with a shrill scrape.

"John-"

The doctor marched on. "I _really_ don't want to hear it right now," John growled, his teeth bared.

"John, it's not what you think-"

"Then _what is it?_! What in _God's name_ , are you doing _here_?" John boomed. It's livid temper echoed along the concrete walls.

Mary took a step forward, not hindered by his outburst. "If you don't want to attract dozens of serial killers, I suggest you lower your voice." Mary bit out evenly.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Dozens?" He inquired.

Mary spoke earnestly, "Yes." Her eyes were mournful. "I came here to warn you and help disassemble them." He shoulders dropped, "It's too dark; otherwise I wouldn't have fought you. I swear it, John."

John looked to Sherlock, who nodded solemnly. Mary's genuine explanation met truthful human behavior. Mary was an expert liar, but even she couldn't have cooked such a confession on the spot. A lie would not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"H'llo?" You mumbled, faintly aware of the conversation. You felt faint and on the verge of passing out.

Sherlock popped up onto the balls of his feet. "We _must_ get going. We've wasted the maximum amount of time possible for her survival. Y/n needs medical attention." He was uncharacteristically anxious.

When the squealing of wheels first sounded throughout the hospital like a rusty shopping cart, John had winced. Now, his irritation was at a tipping point, and a suspected serial killer would do just fine as an outlet. His fists itched for something to pummel.

"John, I'm assigning you full responsibility over y/n," Sherlock announced, striding alongside him.

John did not accept his role. "And what will you be doing? Watching?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied seriously. "Mary and I will take to disarming the serial killers along our path. You will protect y/n. You're the doctor, John."

John's stubbornness had always been a fault of his. He hid his darkest emotions and trusted those he'd barely met. John was a doctor, yes, but he was also a soldier. He was addicted to the adrenaline. Although he ached for a fight, Sherlock's statement put him in his place.

"Alright." He said finally.

At his clipped and vague answer, Sherlock observed him. "You disagree."

John pondered it. "No."

Sherlock was unconvinced. "You're tense. _Lying_."

John bit his cheek.

"You're _hesitating_ , John."

Sherlock had a knack of not knowing what good timing was, and this was one of those times. John was definitely not in a good enough mood to deal with this. John remained silent.

"...not good?" There was a pause. "Ah."

Sherlock stayed quiet after that, looking similar to a dejected puppy. They all stepped along, dispirited and mopish, while Mary trailed behind. The ghostly halls and disfigured shadows didn't discourage them any longer. They marched along the tile, determined to reach the stairs of the lonely hospital.

Sherlock and his long legs took the front, his sharp eyes soaking in every visible detail. Then, abruptly halted. He held a hand out from behind him, motioning to quit walking.

Sherlock's 'detective mode' wasn't like a switch. He was constantly thinking, watching, _seeing_ \- and this was a moment John was glad Sherlock was an expert in his job field. Sherlock's head was poised, a hound on the trail of a raccoon. His metallic eyes skimmed darkly over the scene. A couple of paper plates sat on the floor, a gnawed bones from a chicken rested on the plates. "Two of them have been here." He poked the meat of the poultry. "Still warm."

John frowned. "Are you sure it's only two?"

Sherlock cast his eyes about, trying to locate clues. "Don't be so typical. Two plates. The quantity of food is enough to satisfy two large men. Anderson would have noticed."

Mary was behind John, dagger in hand. She was cautious, straining to detect the movements of a nearby killer. In low voice, she breathed, "John, I need your gun." There was a rustle of a coat, and a tense hand held a gun behind his back. She took it in anticipation, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She paused, exerting her sensitive ears for the crackle of leather or the patter of an untrained foot.

Sherlock was doing the same, calculating the hospital architecture and formation of the walls. He judged the best angles for a precise bash to a head. He constructed a strategy in a mere two seconds before becoming very aware of where the men were hidden, despite his lack of vision in the murky light of the hall. They all held their breath when they heard a faint click of the tile floor against a well disciplined foot.

When Mary extended her weapon, the silence broke.

From opposite directions, two solid masses of black emerged, slamming into the trio. The largest man had taken to Sherlock's end, muscles visible against his tight leather jacket. A slimmer man, although extensively livelier and additionally more punctual with attacks, chose Mary. They were enhanced in their talents, for they nearly matched the cleverness of Sherlock and Mary.

John had taken to you, rolling the bed with a deep screech of grinding metal. Fortunately, the hallway was broad and spacious. It allowed John to slip by, and defend the weak link.

To add to John's growing headache, you were unconscious and the bandage he'd applied was now a damp pink. John huffed. Ditching the bed, he began dragging your limp form into a narrow hospital room doorway. He was swift, laying you across the timeworn mattress. It's springs rattled at the new weight. He barricaded the doorway with heavy cabinets so that only a few inches of the door's window was visible.

There was a gunshot that vibrated through the floor. Mary never misplaced her aim. She towered over the body, his bullet-blown head staring up at the ceiling. She huffed for breath, swiveling to analyze Sherlock's work.

Sherlock had easily managed to take down the brawny man. While the man was double Sherlock's size, Sherlock was dexterous and deft on his toes. To his perspective, it was child's play to outwit the flying fists. Albeit capable of damage, the assassin's aim was off by a mile. Sherlock judged that his hand-eye coordination was poor. All it took was an elbow to the throat and the killer's trachea broke.

Now with the two murderers defeated, Sherlock exposed John's hideout and knocked at the door. "John. They're gone now." He peeked in the visible window, a bush of raven hair and criticizing silver eyes sprouting up into John's view. "If you don't open the door, the sheep nostrils in the fridge will find their way to the microwave."

John trusted Sherlock's threat. He shoved at the bulky cabinets. He forced a grunt, "It'll be open in a second-"

Sherlock propped the door open. His eyes landed on John, offering silent empathy for his troubles. John resembled a shell of a man, exhaustion clouding his eyes. Sherlock's eyebrows dipped in concern for his flatmate, "Why don't you sit down, John? You look rather pale."

John did so.

Sherlock assessed his situation and judged the best plan for action. Looking out the window, a spark of hope lit him. "We need to get y/n out of the building."

John was cradling his pounding headache within his palms. "We don't have enough time. We might be able to get her out of the building, but how long will it take for people to arrive? It's too late. If she loses enough blood, she'll go into hypovolemic shock. I would cauterize the wound, but there's nothing I can use except bandages right now. We're in such an old hospital; the equipment looks like torture weapons. There was a saw in the drawers for amputation."

Sherlock crouched down so he was eye-level to John's slumped form. "There's no need. We'll get her out in time."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock pointed out the tinted window, grinning wildly. "My brother's here." It was true. A hazy light glowed against the chalky window as flashlights were swung about. A sleek black helicopter and armed men had invaded the grounds, already searching and barking instructions and orders. Sherlock whipped his head away from the window and glanced to John and Mary. "Y/n will make it."

Sherlock leapt up. His posture was confident, as if he'd already constructed a cunning scheme. He cast his eyes to Mary. "Mary, firing John's gun has brought Mycroft here, yet it has likely drawn a majority of murderers our direction. Going down the stairs, we would run into them. Barricade the doorway." He turned to his roommate. "Now, do you have a flashlight, John?"

John _did_ have a flashlight. In fact, he always did. It was with him constantly, as often as the gun was. However, he did not see how this had anything to do with their predicament, except for making John feel like an idiot for stumbling among the dark halls without thinking of the source of light he had in his pocket. This is why he wasn't a detective. "...yes." He said simply, allowing the detective to explain.

"Brilliant, John. I need you to flash a message to my brother in Morse Code: 'Room 502'. My brother's surveillance men will likely see it."

"But you said the windows are tinted."

"Yes, they are, but they still allow light through. What would be the purpose of a window if you couldn't see through it?" Sherlock explained, "While they cannot see us, I assure you they will see our message."

John stood a bit unevenly and fetched his flashlight, stamping it against the window. He recalled his Morse Code lessons back in the military. He flashed just as Sherlock had instructed. 'Room 502'. After waiting a few seconds, his paranoia caused him to flash the message repeatedly in fear no one was watching.

John's hope and anxiety washed away when he received a message back. '... .- ..-. . ..-..' which John read as 'Safe?'.

John gave a relieved sigh. He tapped at the flashlight's button, '1 injured.'.

Sherlock calculated the trail to their room. "My brother is doubtlessly impatient. I have faith his search team will effortlessly ambush our petty, fellow serial killers. If I know of my stalking brother's habits, I expect a knock at this door in seven minutes."

John had plastered himself to the window in a new fascination and inspiration. He continued to flash messages, satisfying his hungry curiosity. John chortled, "Count on six."

Mycroft was more than impatient. He was demanding to see his brother and his condition, as John had never specified _who_ was injured. Imaginably to encourage their rescue. And it did. He was in constant communication with his men; he commanded them to hurry and reach the fifth floor.

His men plundered and swarmed the area, arresting the serial killer gang members Sherlock had been after. They lashed out like frightened animals and they fought like barbarians. They reminded Mycroft of savage rats that ran over your toes in a bad part of the cities.

He nearly leaped out of his guarded helicopter when he recognized the humble figures of Sherlock and his friends. His security team advised him not to, however, and he was escorted over.

Oddly enough, there was no quarrel. He met Sherlock's gaze and they shared an equivalent look of fulfillment. It was a courteous appreciation of each brother. No words were expressed, just the serene murmur of silence as a thank you. That was sufficient enough for Mycroft.

Mycroft was only convinced of their safety once he'd witnessed everyone go under the hands of his personal medical team. While most of them remained unscathed, _you_ had required transportation to the hospital, so Mycroft assigned a limo for your friends' travel.

Sherlock, John, and Mary sat awkwardly, each uncertain as of how to fill the silence and initiate conversation within the luxurious ride. Feet scuffed and tongues clicked until John cleared his throat. He seemed uncertain, peering out the window as his stomach thundered viciously. He was hesitant, "Would anyone like Thai food tonight?"


End file.
